The Countess' Lucky Charm Read online

“By appealing to you as a gentleman.”

  “I think not.” Temple lunged forward with a splash and grabbed her wrist. “Furthermore, it’s high time I disabuse you of the notion that I am a gentleman.” He exerted just enough pressure to pull her closer, a relentless force she couldn’t fight. “Come to me, Simone. Let me show you the pleasure to be had between a man and a woman.” His last words were whispered, his dark eyes earnest.

  “Don’t,” she pleaded. “You’ll ruin me.” She leaned away in an effort to resist, digging her feet into the sandy bottom, slapping the water with her free hand. Her attempt to escape him came to naught for his hold on her was steely. Another tug and her body glided into his.

  “I’ll not ruin you against your will.” With a growl, he pulled her up to hold her tight against him, tipping her head back with one rough hand to look down at her. “Command me to stop and I shall.”

  Her skin where it touched his burned while the rest of her was cool, soothed by the water. Of a sudden, Simone knew she could not resist him, could not resist the heady sensations prickling her insides.

  Wicked, so very wicked, to be naked. But right, so very right to be with him.

  Aye, she would lose her virginity today but she would lose it willingly and not dwell on the outcome. Yet.

  She trembled and her hands crept up to rest on his shoulders. They were alone in the wilds and Temple had become as savage and untamed as the country around them.

  Helpless with surrender, she looked into his dark and brooding eyes. As he continued to hold her captive in his gaze, her arms, of their own volition, wound about his neck and she raised her mouth to his. His lips swooped down on hers. They were hot too, as hot as the rest of him. She drew in a deep shuddering sigh and yielded.

  Temple savoured the feel of her in his arms, savoured the craving she aroused in him that he knew would soon be assuaged. He wooed her with his lips, willing her to accept him, to want him as much as he wanted her.

  He tore his lips away to lose himself in her remarkable sapphire eyes, eyes as limitless as the soaring skies above them, eyes of time without end.

  She made as if to pull her arms away from his neck. “No, don’t,” he murmured, sliding his hands over her shoulders and down her back. “Don’t let go of me.”

  Grabbing her legs, he wrapped them about his hips. It was exquisite torture, knowing the cleft he sought was right there, a prize ripe for the taking. “Feel me, Simone, feel how much I want you.” He cupped her buttocks in his hands and moved her up and down against him, making ripples in the water that fanned out around them.

  “Oh,” Simone gasped. Sensations tumbled through her like dice in a cup, rattling and slamming against her ribcage. Desire. Trepidation. Desire. Hesitation. Desire. Desire as she had never before desired in her life.

  She reached up to his head, to wind her fingers in his hair and pull his lips back to hers. Beneath her mouth, she felt him moan, a rumble that coursed through her, filling her with exultation. She had power over him, the age-old power of a woman over a man.

  Beneath her thighs, she could feel his muscles flex and release as he manoeuvred them through the water, back toward the beach. Water cascaded from them like the fountain of desire they were as he stepped free of the lake.

  She clung to him, ankles hooked behind his taut bum, arms clasped around his neck. Each step he took rubbed her mound against the velvet steel of him. Her breasts flattened against his chest as he leaned over to pick up his shirt, a delightful sensation twining with the pleasure boiling between her thighs.

  “A bower for a lady,” he breathed as he tossed his shirt to the ground in a semblance of a blanket.

  Effortlessly, he lowered himself to his knees, clasping her tight with one sinewy arm and leaning forward onto the other one. “Drop your legs,” he commanded and wrapped his arms around her to kiss her again, playful kisses that nipped her collarbone, tugging kisses that pulled at her ear lobes, fairy kisses that trailed up and down her neck.

  “Temple,” she moaned, squirming against him, searching for surcease against the feelings that pummelled her. “More, I want more,” she pleaded, digging her nails into his back before sliding her hands down to his flanks to grasp the strength there.

  “Aye, Simone, and you shall have it. Now.” And he plunged deep into her slick flesh, holding still for an instant before finding a timeless rhythm she instinctively knew.

  Thrust for thrust, they danced and parried until Simone spiralled with the birds on the air currents, searching for a pinnacle that had to exist, only where? Frantic, she arched her back, rooting her heels in the ground to push herself ever closer to Temple, to his maleness, the very essence of him that washed over and through her.

  When it came, her climax was violent, shattering in its power. A piercing scream ripped from her throat at the intensity of awareness that surged through her, to subside to a golden glow radiating from her belly.

  Without a doubt, she had reached womanhood.

  Now she understood the attraction between a man and a woman, why the baker’s wife down the street looked at her husband with eager eyes, why Marianne would creep back into her own cot late at night after a secret tryst despite the risk of raising the ire (and fist) of Mrs Dougherty.

  Above her, she felt Temple pump once, twice before he tilted his head back and let loose an animal howl that startled the crows playing in the breezes above.

  He sagged into her, dropping a kiss on her forehead before pulling himself free. Rolling over to prop himself on one elbow, he gazed down at her, his face gentle. With one finger, he began to trace the outline of her collarbone, back and forth, back and forth, a mindless gesture, and intimate.

  Her heartbeat slowed and she snuggled closer, relishing his strength. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, his chest hair crinkling into her cheek. His scent, and hers too, filled her nostrils and she inhaled. She liked the odour, a trace of her but mostly him, untamed and a bit smoky, and she took another breath.

  Languid, she lay there, feeling him beside her, feeling his chest rise and fall. Oy, if she could only capture this moment, capture the contentment and security, to be taken out and savoured at another time.

  The seconds stretched into one minute, then two before he spoke.

  “The sun sets,” he remarked in a conversational tone. “We had better get dressed.” He sat up.

  Feeling suddenly exposed and embarrassed at her nakedness, she rolled over onto her stomach, hugging his shirt to her.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied in what she hoped was a normal voice, as if lying with a man on a beach in the New Caledonian wilderness was a normal occurrence. “Will you fetch my shift? It’s in the lake somewhere.”

  “You bathed with your shift?” It sounded silly when he said it and she blushed.

  “Yes. I wanted to wash it.”

  “Happy to oblige.” Temple grinned at her and in an easy motion, rolled to his feet. As he strode back toward the lake, she watched him for a few seconds.

  Muscles rippled his buttocks and thighs as he walked and the setting sun outlined his shadowy figure with molten gold.

  Reluctantly peeling her gaze away, she scrambled to her feet and dove for her clothes. She managed to arrange her dress around her shoulders as a makeshift shawl by the time he turned around.

  “I have it,” he said, holding it up to show her. “At least I think it’s yours.”

  A tide of heat crossed her cheeks at the sight of him, striding toward her without a trace of shame.

  “Oh, my,” she murmured. How odd to see him naked while her dress covered her. Another tide of heat flushed her entire body.

  “Here.” He wrung out the shift before he gave it to her. “It’s wet, are you sure you want to put it on?”

  “It will dry,” Simone stammered, jerking it away and trying desperately not to look at him. Looking down the beach, she feigned interest in the crows circling in the breeze.

  “Why don’t you wear my shirt instea
d of your shift? It’s dry.”

  His chivalrous offer stunned her, as if she really was the lady of quality he always spoke about and not the street urchin.

  And that’s when uncertainty and dismay crept in. As neatly as if she had handed him a silver tray, she had just given him more proof of her street upbringing. What had she done, allowing him to take her with nary a struggle? What must he think of her wanton behaviour? She felt ill.

  “Go away,” she whispered, turning around to avoid seeing the censure she was sure she would find in his eyes. With shaking fingers, she donned her wet shift. Cold and clammy, it matched the feeling in the pit of her stomach. She tried to pull on her dress but it clung to the wet shift and she struggled with it.

  What had she done? She had given him the only thing she had of value, that’s what.

  The beauty of the afternoon, the passion they had just shared, spluttered away like a candle that had finally guttered itself out. Behind her, she could hear him getting dressed. Swallowing hard against the bile rising in her throat, she at last managed to pull down her dress.

  “You can turn around now,” he drawled.

  “I don’t want to,” she said. “I—” Her voice died away. What could she say?

  “Now we are man and wife in deed, if not words.” He sounded pleased, unaware of her distress.

  His words stung her to the core. She had become the one thing she had vowed she would never be.

  A whore.

  The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach welled up and smothered any charitable thoughts she had had toward him.

  “You’re just like the rest,” she snapped, looking at him over her shoulder. “Take what you want with nary a thought.”

  “Simone?” His jaw dropped and confusion filled his eyes. Confusion, she knew, at her sudden change in mood.

  She bolted so he couldn’t see the tears. They dribbled down her cheek, falling from her chin to disappear into the woollen cloth of her dress.

  “I’ll look after you, Simone,” he shouted behind her. “I’ll not cast you aside despite what just passed between us.”

  Simone pretended not to hear, tried not to notice his bewildered tone.

  He had ruined her utterly. Thanks to him, she could never become the lady of quality he had vowed she would be. Ever.

  Numb with shock, she marched on, back straight, shoulders back, stumbling over the rocky ground. Only one thing roiled through her mind: she had lost her virginity, symbol of her independence. Her virtue, the one thing she swore would never happen to her, the whole reason why she had become a pickpocket in the first place.

  Damn Temple. Damn him all to hell.

  * * *

  Temple wasn’t sorry. He watched her stalk away, admiring her at every step, at the determined tilt of her head, the vigour in her shoulders. Making love with Simone had been glorious. How could something so right be wrong?

  That thought bothered him—how right she had felt in his arms. She shouldn’t even be in his life but by fate’s hand, their paths had crossed.

  Recently, it had occurred to him on more than one occasion that he could quite happily have Simone at his side for the rest of his life.

  Easy enough to do in this country where a man and a women were judged by their character and not by their station. But he knew they wouldn’t be staying in this remote fort forever.

  He knew one day, when he deemed enough time had passed for Mortimer-Rae to forget all about him, he would return to England with hopefully a bit of extra coin in his pocket. Dare he take her home as his wife? Oh, how tongues would wag. An enticing thought.

  One he would let simmer in his mind for a while.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Please, Simone,” Temple pleaded. “Please talk to me.”

  “We have nothing to say.” Arms crossed, Simone kept her back to him.

  “I assure you it won’t happen again.”

  “What.” She whirled around, glad the interior of their cabin was dim enough so he couldn’t see the tear stains on her cheeks and bosom. “What won’t happen again.” Some devil inside her wanted to hear him say the words, wanted him to acknowledge what had passed between them a scant hour ago. “What won’t happen again,” she repeated.

  “What I perceived to be a very enjoyable pastime.” He gave her a sardonic smile and lifted one eyebrow.

  “At my expense.” She made her voice haughty. Enjoyable pastime, perhaps, but she would pay the piper for it, not he.

  “What did you expect?”

  “What did I expect?” His question infuriated her. “What did I expect? I expected to be treated as a lady of quality, that’s what. Remember that’s what you were going to teach me,” she added sarcastically.

  “Yes.” Temple shrugged. “I am teaching you.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “If you want to know the truth, you still have a few things to learn.” He gave her a devilish wink, as if he was trying to tease her into better humour.

  The insult and his casual manner wounded her to the quick. She drew her hand back and slapped him, a slap powered by hurt and anguish. With grim satisfaction, she saw him flinch.

  “You’re abominable.” Her voice, and eyes, spat venom.

  “So I’ve been told. I’ve never given it much consequence, though.” Simone’s words appeared not to ruffle him in the slightest. He rubbed the red mark on his cheek. “Nicely done, by the way, you pack quite a wallop. Something else you learned on the streets?”

  “At least I learned to stand on my own two feet and not mistreat others.”

  “Mistreat others? Is that what I just did on the beach, mistreat you?” The sardonic smile flitted across his mouth again. “I thought it was just another lesson in your, ahem, education.”

  “An education I can do without, thank you very much.”

  Temple chuckled at Simone’s prim words. “Ah, what a pity,” he said. “You were a very apt pupil. Very well, let me assure you for a second time, it won’t happen again.”

  Speechless, she glared at him. What did the man not understand? He had ruined her.

  But ruined what? The little question wormed itself insidiously in her mind. Nothing, really.

  She was a child of the workhouse, thought to be a lady of easy virtue. Worthless in the eyes of many, and, in the eyes of many others, long past a date with the hangman.

  He was a lord of the upper class and as such lived by his own rules.

  What foolish notions had she harboured, that he was cut of a different cloth and would grow to love her, take her with him when he returned to England? He had treated her exactly as the rest of the world expected. The miracle was it had taken him this long to have his way with her.

  Her shoulders sagged under the weight of crumbling disillusionment. He wasn’t her knight in shining armour, not hers to dream about. A sense of loss washed through her. Only one thing could make things worse right now—if his seed took hold within her.

  “What if I am with child?” She posed the question, heart lurching at the thought.

  A child. How could she possibly raise a child in this wilderness? What would Temple do? Would he claim it as his own? Or cast her from his life forever? A hurtful, dreadful thought.

  He recoiled as if the words were stones she had thrown at him. “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that.” Nerves boiled in her stomach in anticipation of his answer.

  “Well, I expect we will cope.” His voice and demeanour were calm, reassuring.

  “Do you really care so little?” she asked, bewildered at his sudden change in manner.

  “On the contrary, Simone, I care very much.” Temple reached over to clasp her hand. “However, there’s no point in worrying about a child until the matter is clear one way or the other.”

  “Oh.” Simone could feel her cheeks redden as she realized his meaning. “Of course.”

  Nonetheless, his response gave her some comfort. He hadn’t dismissed the notion summarily.

  “What we shoul
d be worrying about is setting the place to rights before it gets too dark to see.” Temple’s voice was brisk. “And finding something to eat.”

  Obviously, the conversation was over. By his matter of fact air, Simone knew Temple intended to carry on as if nothing had happened.

  Well, if he could, then so could she, at least outwardly.

  “Very well, my lord.” Simone deliberately used the salutation. She would do well to remember he was not of her station and what better way to do that than use his title.

  With a heavy heart, she pulled her bedroll from the jumble on the floor and spread it out.

  * * *

  Temple lay on his back, arms clasped under his head, staring into the blackness. A child. The gift of life, sprung from his loins. A consequence he hadn’t thought about before taking Simone.

  His conscience troubled him—he had taken advantage of her, abused her trust. He fought the feeling; he had done nothing wrong, had only acted on nature’s creed. It was not like she didn’t know what went on between a man and a woman. She had enjoyed it, he had felt that in every fibre of his being.

  But a child. Not just any child, but his child. Hardly anything to worry about, considering her background, and certainly not his concern. A guinea or two a month should put things to rights.

  Somehow the idea of his child being a bastard didn’t sit right with him. He inhaled, filling his lungs with as much air as he could before letting it out slowly with a hissing sound. He had learned this trick to calm himself whilst duelling, to keep his hand steady and his mind clear.

  There was, however, another solution. The babe would not be a bastard if he married the mother. Marry Simone? Odd how often that thought crossed his mind lately. Simone wasn’t the genteel woman he had always pictured, but did it matter?

  A child. Well, he would abide by his own counsel. It was pointless to speculate until it was actual fact.

  Beside him, scant feet away behind one of his chests, slept Simone, oblivious to his churning thoughts. He listened to her breathe, concentrating on the sound, letting it soothe him as it always did.